


Good Boys Get Presents

by SplinterCell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Brock Rumlow is a bag of dicks, Dehumanization, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Non-con by default because Bucky can't consent to a damned thing, painful orgasms, winterbones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 10:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/pseuds/SplinterCell
Summary: Of all the things Brock might have expected the Asset to take from the target's house, a Christmas present certainly wasn’t high on the list.





	Good Boys Get Presents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sneakend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sneakend/gifts).



> Merry Belated Christmas, and all the best for the New Year :)

Brock couldn’t give less of a fuck about Christmas if his fucking life depended on it.

Not that he has anything against Christmas per se. Not more so than any other holiday at least; he’s just not one for festivities, generally.

The few living relatives he still has—worthless trailer-trash that they are—he hasn’t spoken to in over a decade. Wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire. And he’s certain the feeling’s mutual; they wouldn’t speak to him either even if  _their_  fucking lives depended on it.

But without family, what else is there? Empty commercialism and the same saccharine songs playing in an endless loop everywhere he goes? Choking down tasteless mince pies and quaffing fake eggnog at S.H.I.E.L.D's godawful ‘Rudolph’s Rocking Reindeer Bash’ whilst exchanging meaningless small talk with colleagues he can’t fucking wait to shoot?

Yeah, he’ll pass, thanks.

(Well, there  _is_  the birth of Christ the Saviour in a Bethlehem stable, too. But that—like his good-for-nothing family—hasn’t been a feature of Brock’s life for a very long time.)

\---

Brock’s not sure exactly what he has done to deserve it, but some deity up in the sky must have heard his silent pleas and decided to take pity on him, because a mission crops up just two days before the party.

It’s a simple mission: locate some asshole deep in the ass-crack of Eastern Europe and make an example out of him. It’s not exactly his favourite part of the world in the depth of winter, but anything starts to look pretty fucking appealing when the alternative involves karaoke Christmas carols. What’s even better is that it’s an Asset mission, which means that Brock can ‘volunteer’ Rollins to come along and leave it at that.

They’re dropped in the middle of a mountain range with a name Brock has no hope in hell of ever being able to pronounce. It’s a beautiful clear night; the snow deep and crisp and even, crunching beneath their boots as they make their way through a picturesque forest of fir trees and pines, the ice covering their branches glittering in the moonlight.

It’s perfect. Exquisite, even. The kind of scene that Brock would expect to see on a card, or in a Hollywood movie.

It’s also fucking  _freeze-your-balls-off-cold_ , and because all their gear is made by the lowest bidder—thanks a fucking million, good ol’ Uncle Sam—by the time they find the rich fuck’s fabulous, award-winning, architecturally designed, heavily guarded but  _very isolated_  hideaway, Brock can’t feel his fingers, his feet, or even most of his fucking face anymore.

\---

Linking up with Hydra’s local cells is always a gamble.

When it goes well, Brock gets a chance to see new faces, make new connections, and learn things he otherwise wouldn’t be able to. More often than not though, it goes wrong—because someone fucks up out in the field, or decides to get a little too ‘friendly’ with the Asset without his express permission, or just decides that the best way to win favour with  _their_  boss is to butcher Pierce’s right-hand man—and Brock’s left with blood and guts all over his goddamn gear and a godawful mess of paperwork to deal with.

But his good luck seems to be holding, because the three figures who step out of the trees are all solid, dependable men he’s worked with before; wise enough to know when to ask questions, when to push back, and when to just keep their goddamned mouths shut and do as they’re told. They nod a greeting to him, and Brock in turn gives the signal for Rollins to stand down from where he’s taken up a position behind the tree line, and then waves the Asset forward.

No matter how many times it happens, it’s always a treat to watch the Asset in action.

Or, in this case, listen to it. It disappears into the darkness at Brock’s command, fading into the shadows like a ghost. Then there’s a couple of minutes of silence broken only by the occasional sound of snow slipping off a branch onto the ground below. The men look at him in confusion.

“Wait for it,” he whispers, in reply to their unspoken question, and a moment later the peace of the night is torn apart by a desperate scream. And then another. And another. They run into each other as the Asset tears its way through the guards posted around the cabin’s perimeter creating a single drawn-out sound of animalistic fear and sudden, inconceivable pain, until it fades into ugly gurgles and whimpers as the unfortunate men and women bleed out onto the pristine snow.

Brock grins to himself. “Right,” he says, adjusting his grip on his rifle. “I reckon that’ll have woken them up indoors. Rollins, you’re with me. The rest of you, spread out.”

\---

They’re back at what can only generously be called a ‘base’ twelve hours later.

It’s little more than an old Cold War-era Soviet missile bunker. The missiles are long gone, but little else seems to have been touched in the intervening decades, the lights shining down unflinchingly on utilitarian wooden desks and metal chairs.

On one cracked concrete wall, splashes of red and white Cyrillic exhort long-dead Comrades to give their all in defence of the Motherland, whilst on the opposite wall Lenin and Stalin stand side by side in profile, staring off heroically into the distance.

Brock whistles as he stands in front of it, directing the stream of piss up in an arc that hits ol’ Uncle Joe right in the eye and then keeps it there. He watches it stream down the wall as the men behind him holler and jeer, shakes the last couple of drops from his dick, and then tucks himself away with a promise to do Lenin properly next time since he’s the only one in this goddamned base with any kind of dick control.

He’s not too proud to admit that he’s already a little drunk on some nameless, colourless, odourless hooch that he’s certain can only be made by an old man in a dilapidated shed. Brock can  _drink_ , but this stuff packs a punch; it feels like drinking wire wool, like it doesn’t slide down the throat so much as scrape it raw on its way down to royally fuck up his guts.

He’ll regret it tomorrow, but right now he’s feeling warm and full of goodwill as he holds court and regales his audience with terrible stories that have them hanging on his every word.

“So we had it all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, y’know? Face-down on the floor, ass right up in the air,” Brock is in the middle of explaining when Rollins rejoins them. “An’ we dumped a whole bottle of Stoli down there. Pushed it in real deep and just fucking held it there. A whole fucking litre. You know what happened?” The men around him shake their heads, and Brock grins. “Fuck all. Absolutely  _fucking nothing_. Dumb fuck just stayed there on the ground looking like this—” he mimics the Asset’s dead-eyed gaze and everyone laughs.

Well, almost everyone.

Rollins is glaring at him from his position over by the doorway, his arms folded over his chest.

Unlike everyone else he’s not drunk. He is also still in his gear and Brock eyes the way it hugs his body with unabashed appreciation; it’s tight enough to show off his arms and his thickly muscled thighs and most importantly the curve of his ass, but unlike Romanoff’s ridiculous little catsuits, it still leaves a little something to the imagination.

“Boss.” Rollins has always managed to make the word sound like an insult.

“Jack!” Brock holds up the bottle in greeting. “Was wonderin’ where the hell you got off to. C’mere and have a drink with us.”

Somehow, Rollins’ glare gets even darker. “We have a situation—”

Brock cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “Can’t hear you, sweetheart,” he declares, beckoning him over. “Gotta come  _closer_.”

A muscle in Rollins’ jaw twitches when Brock calls him ‘sweetheart’ although whether it’s that or the way the other men laugh Brock doesn’t know. But he pushes himself away from the doorframe with a sigh and walks over.

“So, you were sayin’?” Brock prompts, when Rollins stops in front of him and then tips his head back to take another long pull on the bottle without waiting for an answer. He doesn’t miss the hungry way his second-in-command follows the movement.

But when he answers, Rollins’ voice is perfectly even. “There’s a situation with the Asset,” he says, and that shuts the other men up immediately, each one turning to look at Brock with varying degrees of horror.

Brock rolls his eyes. Rollins has always had a flair for the dramatic. “Has it snapped and on the way up to slaughter us right now?” he asks, and then before Rollins has a chance to reply, answers the questions himself. “No it hasn’t, and it isn’t. Why? Because it’s secured in a specially designed containment facility. Right, Jackie?”

“Yes, but—” Rollins stops abruptly, his expression turning venomous.

“But what?” Brock asks as innocently as he can. “If it hasn’t snapped, why should I care?” The last word is lost in a hiss of pain as Rollins reaches around and pulls his hand away from where he’d been groping his ass, squeezing hard enough for the bones to grind together.

One sharp twist and they would snap like twigs, Brock knows. That knowledge ought to make him back down, play nice. But he’s never been wired the way most people are. Hell, the ever-present threat of violence is a good part of what attracts him to his second-in-command in the first place. Rollins isn’t as well-versed in pain as Brock is because he prefers to deal out death from a distance, but he’s vicious enough when he needs to be. Brock can beat him, of course, but it’s never easy, never guaranteed.

And with half a bottle of homemade hooch sloshing through his veins, they both know Brock wouldn’t stand a chance.

Rollins’ eyes are dark, but he drops Brock’s wrist and steps back. “You should  _care_  because it disobeyed a direct order,” he say, “ _Commander_.”

\---

A long time ago, back when it was a still just a storeroom, the most dangerous items that might have been found in the ‘specially designed containment facility’ would have been hammers, nails, screwdrivers, and other mundane maintenance tools.

But whilst care has been taken to ensure that the upper levels of the base look like they have remained untouched since it was abandoned in the unlikely event it’s found by any intrepid urban explorers, the deeper one goes, the more the truth becomes apparent.

Down here, cracked, crumbling concrete and faded, peeling paint gives way to sleek steel lit with bright white LEDs instead of the warmer, flickering fluorescent tubes found elsewhere. Heavy blast doors divide each level into distinct sectors, with explosive devices positioned at key points in the structure which could, if detonated, bring the entire base collapsing in on itself in a matter of a couple of minutes, burying all of its secrets under a metric fuckton of twisted steel and concrete.

Enough to bury even a supersoldier if something in its head were to somehow slip loose.

Not that there’s a risk of that right now though, Brock thinks as he looks through the window into the containment cell.

The Asset is squatting on the balls of its feet with its arms shackled behind it to the wall with thick, vibranium-reinforced chains. A further chain, which is attached to a ring anchored into the concrete floor, connects to a heavy collar around its neck.

It’s all exactly as he would expect to see it. Except for one thing—

“Hey! He started without us!” one of the men blurts out behind them, before one of the others shushes him. Mihkel, the youngest of the three and obviously the drunkest if he’s forgotten the need to mind his manners. Rollins turns to him with a growl, but Brock catches his arm and pulls him back.

“ _Did_  you start without us, Jackie?” he asks. “Is that why it’s naked?” Because it sure as hell hadn’t been when Brock had left it here three hours ago.

Rollins pulls his arm free but doesn’t meet his eyes when he answers. “It was hiding something,” he says. “Something it took from the target’s house.” He steps away to a small table at the side of the room, picks up something small, and tosses it over. “Here.”

Brock almost laughs when he catches it. “It  _took_  this?” he asks incredulously, and Rollins nods.

“Despite orders not to touch a goddamned thing,” he says. “It’s probably the start of a malfunction.”

“Maybe,” Brock mutters, but his attention is fixed firmly on the object in his hands. Of all the things he might have expected the Asset to take, a Christmas present certainly wasn’t high on the list. It’s small, only slightly larger than a ring box and lovingly wrapped in glittering gold paper. He looks into the cell again. The Asset doesn’t appear to have moved, even though Brock’s sure it knows they’re there, one-way glass or not. “You’ve already called it in, haven’t you?”

Rollins shifts beside him. “Before I came to find you. Emergency evac’ll be here in an hour.”

An hour. That means—Brock works out the timing quickly and then swears. “We’ll be back in time for the party,” he realises.

“Sorry.” Rollins sounds anything but sorry.

Brock sighs. It’s standard procedure, of course; his second-in-command has done exactly what he is meant to in this situation, but Brock still wants to throttle him.

\---

The Asset doesn’t stir when Brock enters its cell, nor when the other men follow him a few moments later and fan out around the edges of the small room with their weapons drawn and at the ready.

Its head is bowed, hair obscuring its face. It’s perfectly still, and if it weren’t for the fact that he can see the shallow rise and fall of its chest as it breathes, Brock might be tempted to believe it was dead.

“Asset,” he says loudly, but there’s still no response, and that by itself would be enough to send it back to the Chair.

He stops in front of it and searches for any of the tell-tale signs that it’s been struggling to free itself, but there are none. The skin on its neck and one wrist are both a little red from where the vibranium has encased them, but that’s it.

Not that it isn’t capable of cunning, of hiding its intentions as it waits for the right moment to strike.

“Asset,” he says again, still in the same tone of voice. “You have three seconds to look up.”

Its head snaps up the moment Brock finishes the sentence, the movement so swift that it sets the chain clanking against itself. Out the corner of his eye, he sees one of the local men—Peeter—take a sharp step backwards.

The Asset notices too, its attention suddenly fixed on the unfortunate man with a predator’s intensity. Brock shifts and brings it back to himself.

There’s no confusion, fear or hatred in its eyes, and no indication in its otherwise blank expression that there’s anything more going on inside its skull than there ought to be. But still… “State your name, rank and serial number, soldier,” he orders.

The Asset open its mouth immediately, but no words emerge. Its brow furrows as it seeks to recall information that doesn’t exist, before it shakes its head helplessly, pre-emptively cringing away from the anticipated punishment.

“Well now. That’s interesting,” Brock murmurs, stepping closer. It’s looking more and more like Rollins was right after all and it  _is_  a malfunction, albeit one they’ve never encountered before. He squats down and pulls the small box from behind his back, holding it in front of the Asset’s face. “You recognise this?” he asks.

The Asset licks its lips as it answers. “Yes, Commander.”

“Where did it come from?”

“From the target’s residence, Commander.” The hesitation before it answers is minimal, and probably no-one but Brock would even notice it. Knowledge that it has done wrong. A good sign. It hasn’t taken its eyes off the small box.

“Why’d you take it?” He’s not expecting a coherent answer; the Asset’s programming struggles with open-ended enquiries, but it’s always funny watching it struggle to articulate needs it has no words for.

But this time it answers without difficulty. “Because I have been good,” it says simply, “and good boys get Christmas presents.”

Brock’s never been one to end up lost for words, but a very long moment of silence passes as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. “Christmas presents,” he repeats slowly, and the Asset nods once.

“Yes, Commander,” it says, without prompting. “Everyone knows that Santa Claus brings gifts to good boys and girls.” It is probably the most words Brock has ever heard it say at one time.

“Right, and you  _think_  you’ve been good,” he muses and the Asset’s hopeful expression crumples.

Well, maybe they  _can_  still have some fun after all.

\---

Rollins argues against the idea of course, just as Brock had known he would.

Well, perhaps ‘argues’ is the wrong word; more accurately, he pitches a goddamn fit nearly before Brock has even finished speaking, getting right up close into his personal space and forcing him to step backwards until his thighs meet the edge of the table.

Brock wouldn’t stand for it if it were anyone else; would have dropped them to their knees with a few well-placed blows for having the impertinence to talk to him like this. But Rollins is different; part of his role as Brock’s second-in-command is to challenge, and besides, he’s hot as hell when he’s angry and looming over Brock like some furious force of nature.

“It’s unsafe, Rumlow, and downright  _fucking irresponsible!_ ” he shouts. He’s bracing himself with his hands on the table either side of Brock, leaning in so their faces are no more than a couple of inches apart, and God how Brock wishes the other men had fucked off when Rollins started his tirade; had they been alone, Brock might have got to experience the full force of his second’s displeasure. “Standard operating procedure when dealing with a malfunction is to shoot it full of tranqs and then  _keep your fucking distance_! You fucking  _know this_!”

Of course Brock knows it; he’s been the Asset’s handler for years. He wrote most of the Asset’s goddamn operational manual. “We  _are_  gonna keep our distance,” he retorts quietly. “That’s why I  _said_  no-one’s gonna touch it. Look, how many opportunities for a bit of fun do we get, huh? One a year? Two?” None at all most years. The Asset is too precious a tool to use too often. “Look, it’s Christmas,” he adds, “and we’ve been freezing our asses off in the back of beyond while the higher-ups get to enjoy fancy brandy in front of open fires. We deserve a treat, don’t we?”

Rollins hesitates, and that’s when Brock knows he has him. Rollins can be a stickler for protocol, but he enjoys Asset missions every bit as much as Brock does.

“We’ll be completely hands off,” Brock promises. “Just trust me, okay? I’m not stupid.”

Rollins stares at him for a moment and then laughs, a slightly mad and manic sound. “No,” he agrees, raking his fingers through his hair. “You’re not stupid. You’re just fucking insane. Fuck it; you’re just gonna go ahead and do it anyway, aren’t you?”

Brock blows him a kiss in response and then slips past him. In reality, Rollins is a secondary handler. If he were to decide to actually put his foot down, there would be very little Brock could do. But if this is what Rollins needs to tell himself in order to let himself go along with the plan, then Brock’s not going to say anything.

“Right kids, let’s get this show on the road since”—he checks his watch and grimaces—“well, fuck, we’ve already lost ten minutes.”

\---

The premise is simple enough because Brock’s too tired and drunk to come up with anything really nasty and clever.

The Asset wants its present, and whilst it believes it deserves it because it has been good, the Asset is not the final arbiter of its own behaviour—Brock is, and given that the Asset disobeyed an order, he needs further proof.

“Seven orgasms in fifty minutes,” he says, making a show of setting his stopwatch. “You manage that, and that cute lil’ box is all yours.” The Asset nods eagerly, relieved to have a chance to redeem itself, and takes its dick in hand immediately.

It’s not normally the kind of fun they have with the Asset, but Brock doesn’t mind. As fun as it is to make it writhe and howl and bleed around their fists and dicks and stunbatons, watching it rediscover the pleasurable sensations its body is capable of providing is a different kind of treat.

A treat that’s over all too soon. Its first orgasm takes them all of them by surprise. One moment its eyes are slipping closed as it quickens the pace, soft sighs and moans accompanying the slick sound of flesh on flesh as it ruts into its fist, and then all of a sudden its breath catches in its throat, its hips jerk roughly, and then it groans loudly as semen drips from between its fingers onto the floor.

“Well, fuck. Guess it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?” Brock says with a laugh, checking his watch. Five minutes, Jesus Christ. Still, this is just the entrée. “You did good,” he adds when the Asset looks to him for approval. “Now give us another six like that, and then you get your present. Chop chop.”

\---

Like Rogers, the Asset is stronger, faster and more resilient than any unenhanced human. But even Zola’s knockoff—inferior as it is—has effects that extend far beyond the basics of strength, speed and healing factor. The Asset’s immune system is stronger, it’s vision and hearing much more sensitive. It can metabolise substances that should otherwise be fatally toxic.

Crucially, its refractory period is a little over five minutes.

By the time fifteen minutes have elapsed since Brock started the stopwatch the Asset has come three times in quick succession, and it’s only by the third that it even breaks into a sweat.

The local men are already jerking off, and sure Brock gets the aesthetic appeal of a ruthless killing machine bringing itself off with seemingly little effort, but he knows the best is yet to come.

Because this is where it starts to get interesting, and where the Asset’s enjoyment ends.

\---

It takes the Asset seven minutes to achieve its fourth orgasm, a further eight minutes to reach number five.

Its expression twists with each movement of its fist over its chafed and reddened dick and the only sounds it makes are short grunts as pleasure finally gives way entirely to pain, until it shudders once more, its head falling onto its heaving chest.

“Keep going,” Brock urges it, unbuckling his belt and shoving his hand down into his boxers to palm at his own growing erection. “You can do this. We believe in you.”

The Asset’s flushed cheeks darken even further, and it gives a shaky nod.

\---

The sixth makes it cry.

There’s a small tear in the skin near the head of its dick, the blood a slightly brighter red against the already raw skin, but the Asset ignores it. It grits its teeth as it jerks itself off with movements which are verging on vicious, and even with its eyes screwed shut tears leak from underneath its lashes.

Brock’s always loved seeing it like this; crying and shaking, its entire body held taut like a bowstring as it strives to push itself past its limits to follow his orders.

“Twelve minutes,” he says, as the Asset tries to steady its breathing. “Just one more.”

\---

It’s Rollins who reads his mind and coolly orders it to finger itself to give its poor abused dick a rest, and then every one of them winces when it reaches around with its left arm and pushes two metal fingers into its own ass right down to the knuckle without any preparation.

Of course, Rollins never mentioned lubrication.

But where a normal human would cry out, or scream, or hell maybe even faint from such a sudden and shocking intrusion, the Asset merely cries harder. It sucks in deep breaths and sobs as it rocks forwards and backwards onto its fingers in a desperate and unsteady rhythm.

Brock keeps pace with it as it fucks itself, every broken whimper pushing him closer and closer to the edge, but he won’t let himself come just yet, not until—

It stills suddenly with a pitiful groan. “I can’t, Commander,” it begs hoarsely. “I can’t.” Its voice breaks on the last word. Failure brings punishment and pain. Failure is not an option, and yet here it is...

“You  _will_ ,” Brock snarls. “You want your goddamn gift? Then  _keep going_.”

_ “Please!” _

It takes every ounce of willpower Brock has to clamp his fingers around the base of his dick instead of letting himself spill all over his fingers and leans his head back against the wall until he no longer feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. “Fuck you, you useless cunt,” he growls, and the Asset cringes. “Don’t think you can just get out of this like that.”

It starts babbling when he stalks towards it, something about the present that Brock entirely ignores. He doesn’t give a shit about the present; he wants to see the thing that used to be Bucky fucking Barnes  _break_.

He stops in front of it and kneels down, heedless of the mess smeared over the floor and feeling Rollins’ glare on the back of his neck as keenly as if it were a knife pressed against his skin. He wraps his hand around its soft, bloodied dick. “We’ll do it together,” he says, squeezing harshly and making it choke. “Now  _move_. Forwards and backwards, just like you were.”

The Asset doesn’t dare disobey, and Brock starts jerking it off, timing it carefully so that he ends up twisting his hand just so over the sensitive head of its dick at the same time as its fingers brush against its prostate.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” he sneers, but the Asset doesn’t reply. It’s still crying raggedly, but its breathing starts to hitch again under Brock’s careful ministrations. He knows it is in far too much pain to be able to find this even slightly enjoyable, but that doesn’t stop its body from responding. “Add another finger,” he orders, and the Asset’s entire body starts trembling as it does so. “Yeah, that’s it. Doesn’t that feel good?”

“N-n-no,” it stammers. Healing factor or not, without any preparation or lube, it’s probably bleeding.

Brock chuckles. “Too bad. You still gonna give us one more, one way or another.”

It shakes its head. “P-p-please!” it croaks out, and fucking hell, Brock wants to kiss Jack Rollins right about now. “I c-c-can’! I c-c-can’t! I—”

Brock shushes it. “Of course you can, baby,” he murmurs. He slips his other hand back down his pants and lets the Asset’s movements do the job for him. “You’re close already, aren’t you? Don’t you want to be good for me?”

He leans in to press a gentle kiss to its raw-bitten lips as his own orgasm crests, and drinks down the Asset’s low primal sound of desperation and defeat as it comes for a seventh and final time.

\---

“Oh God! What did they even  _do_  to it?”

“Trust me, it’s better not to ask. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but—oh, man. Ugh, that’s it. I’m not going to be able to stomach the sight of a mince pie after this.”

“D’you want to swap ends?”

“...Yes, please.”

“...Wow, okay you were not kidding. You are gonna owe me big time for this.”

“I told you! And yeah, I—wait a second... What the hell is  _this_?”

“What’s what?”

“This. Here, it’s a—well, I mean I know what it  _looks_  like but they wouldn’t have, would they?”

“What? Given it a Christmas present? Who the fuck knows. STRIKE are a law unto themselves. What is it?”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“Open it?”

“But it’s not mine—okay, that was dumb. Ignore I said that… Oh wow.  _Wow_. Here, look.”

“Ooh, very nice. I reckon that’s 24-carat, y’know.”

“...God, it must have cost a fortune…”

“I’d say so. It suits you though.”

“You really think—hey, get off! Shit!  _Where’s the damn stunbaton?_  Jesus… It could have taken my arm clean off! I’ve never seen it react like that before. Have you?”

“Fuck no. Make sure those straps are tight will you, and I’ll add a note for the docs. It's definitely gonna need a full wipe and reconditioning.”

\---

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say I'm sorry, but I'd be lying :P


End file.
